the devil does what you ask of him
by lil7miss7sarcastic
Summary: So she stays up late reading whatever she can get her hands on. Until the words on the pages blur, till her eyes burn, she endlessly procrastinates going to bed. Because in that period between awake and sleep, when her eyes are still shut, she is terrified of her thoughts. Post CACW Natasha goes on the run, though she can never run from thoughts of a certain metal-armed assassin.
1. Chapter 1

She's in Mumbai when Steve tries to contact her.

 _I've tried calling your number, but you've probably disposed of your phone. I'm not even sure if you've kept this one. For all I know, this message will never reach you. Oh well._

She doesn't reply. She figures it's safer for everyone if Steve thinks he didn't get ahold of the burner phone she's currently carrying. That his texts haven't reached her.

And maybe there's something comforting about her silence, maybe it's freeing to get those words out into the void, because Steve continues sending messages.

 **Tuesday 14:56 hrs**

 _Remember that time we tried lifting the hammer? That seemingly innocuous piece of metal that determines your entire worth? There was a moment when I thought I would lift it, that I would be deemed worthy. I think about that moment a lot._

 **Tuesday 22:45 hrs**

 _Do you think Thor knows what happened?_

 **Wednesday 11:20 hrs**

 _I'm reading this book by Thomas Kuhn. He talks about paradigm shifts that upend everything you ever thought you knew. How many paradigm shifts do you think happen in a man's lifetime?_

 **Thursday 02:30 hrs**

 _And to think that a few months ago my biggest worry was rising real estate prices._

Of course, there's nothing incriminating in his messages. Nothing about where he is, who he's with. No word on a recent prison break she saw on the news.

She receives the last one on Sunday, very early in the morning.

 _Thank you._

 _For letting us do what we had to._

.

.

Natasha tries to treat it as a vacation.

She really does.

She has enough money sequestered away and a fair network of safe houses not many know of. It's all fine during the day. She visits museums and art galleries. She takes a ferry to see a Buddhist monastery carved out of a mountain. She tries the spicy street food, picks out pretty ethnic jewellery. She takes pictures of the colonial architecture. She manages to catch a Bollywood film shoot in a park, all bright colours and loud songs. She dyes her hair black.

It's the nights that are a problem.

The first night, she doesn't sleep at all, just watches TV. Pretty soon, she grows tired of mindlessly flicking through channels so she raids the bookstores nearby. She finds a tattered copy of _The Age of Innocence_ in a secondhand book stall and takes it to bed.

 _Each time you happen to me all over again_ , she reads, lids heavy with sleep.

A routine is formed. She stays out the entire day, exploring a new part of the city. In the evening, she returns to her modestly priced hotel and makes herself a cup of instant soup. Then she stays up reading a book, a magazine, a newspaper, whatever she can get her hands on. Reading until the words on the pages blur, till her eyes burn, she endlessly procrastinates going to bed. She reads until she can't anymore, till she knows sleep will take over instantaneously.

Because in that period between awake and sleep, when her eyes are still shut, she is terrified of her thoughts.

.

.

It was important to have an imagination in the Red Room.

She'd heard of the torturous training baller dancers had to undergo. So she imagined herself as a ballerina, weaving and dancing with faceless partners. Broken fingers and bleeding toes were all a part of the package if she was going to be performing on the stage, silhouetted by colourful lights.

It was important to have an imagination in the Red Room because there was only silence.

She needed something to fill that silence. So she imagined. Yelena had a low, sultry voice. Katya had a thin, reedy voice. Nadia's voice was pleasant, patient.

And when she walked into the weapons room, she was accompanied by a swell of trumpets. The day she made her first kill, there were screeching violins in the background. The rich sounds of Tchaikovsky drowned the groans and the whimpers of her fellow trainees.

Her life was a movie and she had her own personal soundtrack.

.

.

She's sitting by the sea when her phone buzzes. Despite herself, she picks it up. The sun is about to set and the yellow streetlights slowly flicker along the curve of the bay. Queen's Necklace, it's called. A string of pearls choking an elegant neck.

"Natasha?"

"Sam?"

"Thank god. Steve told me it was a long shot but I had to try-"

"Does he know?"

"Not unless you want me to tell him."

She doesn't say anything.

"Anyway, I doubt he'd- I mean he's holed up all the time with T'Challa in this room they call the war council-"

A pause.

"I don't think I was supposed to tell you that."

"Sam, it's not that difficult to figure out where you guys are. How's- how's Clint?"

"He's fine. Went back to his family, they're lying low. So did Scott."

"Wanda?"

"Wanda's here with us. She's a little- well, there are good doctors here."

Natasha sighs. A light drizzle builds up and she sees couples sitting around her shake and unfurl big umbrellas. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, they huddle behind the umbrellas, faces turned towards each other. In a city teeming with millions, this is the only space they have. An expression of private moments on a very public promenade.

There's something in his voice she can't quite pinpoint.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

"Bucky- he just went back under ice. After all that happened, everything we did- and Steve, Steve just _let_ him, Natasha."

"Why?"

"He said he couldn't trust his own mind. So he went back to sleep. _Just like that_."

She realises that he's angry. She also realises she's gripping the phone too tightly.

"Sam, I have to go."

"Thought so. Don't call on this number again?"

"Don't call on this number again."

"Stay safe, Natasha."

The phone warms her hand for only a second before it's violently flung away. She watches it break into pieces on the rocks below, the thundering of the waves like a song in the background.

.

.

The rain does good to the city, giving it a fresh lick of paint. But like all changes, she can only see it above her; the clear sky, a gleaming skyscraper, and far away, the wisp of a rainbow.

On the ground level, it's the squelch of her feet on the potholed road, a car splashing brown water on her jeans.

She wonders what he's dreaming of.

 _"You really don't do well in the cold," she says. An offhand comment. "Considering your name."_

 _His mouth quirks but his gaze is still troubled._

 _"It hurts my arm." A half-truth._

 _Then: "It makes my mind go blank. And then there are the dreams. Dreams of frost. And glass."_

 _They both know what he's talking about. She didn't before. But now it seems the rumours have been confirmed._

 _She twists to face him and his fingers reach out to touch her hair._

 _"What do you dream of now?"_

 _"Fire."_

The crowd presses into her and she becomes a part of it easily. A purposeful walk, hunched shoulders and a scarf wound over her face and soon she's a faceless part of the throng, on her way to a destination with a visible urgency that's mobilising the entire crowd. It's as effortless as a pebble smoothly sinking in water.

As simple as waking up in the middle of the night, weary with a dream half-remembered, eyes shutting of their own accord, and in the next moment, going back to sleep.

 _Just like that._

* * *

 **So should I continue this?**

 **Title's from Beach House's dreamy song Master of None.**


	2. Chapter 2

_is this how it works?_

 _in this room_

 _the hours of love_

 _still make shadows._

\- For Jane, Charles Bukowski

Paris was picturesque in its disrepair.

The narrow cobblestoned streets, impractical to navigate. The cracked flowerpots hanging over every balcony the eye could see. The overflowing gutters when it rained.

She meets Sophie while they're both sipping _café au lait_ standing up at the counter because there's no free table in the tiny café.

Sophie buys her story of a solo trip across Europe after a bad breakup. Natasha tells her that she's staying in a hostel in the heart of the city.

"Your French is very good," notes Sophie. "For an American."

Natasha shrugs. "I took lessons."

Sophie smiles. "You have to come to dinner with me and my friends," she insists. "It's very casual. Just a couple of people from the university."

"No, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"It's no trouble. We love meeting new people."

Natasha thinks of the entire evening that lies ahead of her. The DVDs in the furnished safe house a few streets over. A tiny bakery she'd been meaning to buy bread from.

She looks again at Sophie's open, friendly face. Her red windswept hair. Slightly crooked teeth.

"Well, in that case, I'd love to come."

Later, as they're smoking under a streetlamp, she asks, "Why did you two fall apart?"

Natasha exhales and watches the ring of smoke rise upwards.

"He wasn't the same man anymore."

.

.

Sophie takes her to a restaurant known for its seafood. Her friends are already waiting. Natasha assesses them quickly, sharp eyes taking in their hands and clothes and the way they smile. She doesn't pick up anything odd. Nothing to suggest something's not what it seems. She feels like she can relax, though she only pretends to sip her wine.

They're all PhD students, like Sophie, working on theses no one would ever read. But they're all warm and welcoming and accept her as an old friend. As if she's sat here before, at this table groaning with dishes, exchanging inside jokes with ease.

Trust, she thinks. People trust too easily.

She notices things. Things these group of friends are too myopic to notice. Pierre keeps trying to flirt with her, even though Sophie had mentioned he had a girlfriend. Tina's jealous of Sophie's academic achievements; she purses her lips whenever they discuss Sophie's highly-commended dissertation on post-structuralism and Jane Eyre. Mitch and Jean are very much in love, though they seem to be hiding something from the rest.

Pierre touches her arm. "Eve, till when are you in Paris?"

"Leaving tomorrow."

"Oh," says Sophie, disappointed. "I was going to show you around."

Natasha smiles. "You've only got me for tonight, I'm afraid."

The night passes in a blur of good food and conversation. There's a worrying moment when the topic swings to the Avengers Civil War, as the media has been calling it, and Jean asks for her opinion-

"I don't know, it seems like a big deal over nothing."

-and they swiftly move on to the recent immigrant crisis. Really, she can never get over how blind people can be. Her disguise is rudimentary. Her hair's a different colour, cut with a fringe. She's wearing contacts, and glasses with black frames.

In reality, she's playing with expectations. Sophie and Pierre and Mitch and Jean and Tina, none of them would ever expect to be sharing dinner with the Black Widow. So they see what they want to see.

.

.

They leave, one by one. Soon, it's just her and Sophie standing outside in the clear night.

Sophie sways slightly. "I think I had too much to drink."

"The wine was very good."

"You barely had any, Eve. I noticed."

Interesting. Sophie's a better observer than she'd given her credit for.

She walks towards Natasha and places a hand on her shoulder. With the other hand she touches the top of her head, where her roots are showing.

"Look, hair twins," she laughs.

And then she kisses her. Their bodies bump into each other as the kiss deepens, and Sophie sighs into her mouth. She runs her palms across Natasha back, briefly slipping underneath the hem of her blouse.

She pulls away, breathing hard, and blinks.

"Sorry, was that, how do you say it, too much too soon?"

"Not at all," replies Natasha, grinning, winding her fingers in her hair and pulling her closer.

.

.

Sophie's apartment is on the sixth floor of a building not far from the restaurant. If she tilts her head so, Natasha can just about make out the Eiffel Tower from the window.

And lying besides a snoring Sophie, she stares at the ceiling in the dark and thinks of the first time she was in Paris.

 _Paris is picturesque in its sheer beauty._

 _The women in the latest fashions, hurrying along narrow cobblestoned streets. The apartments with wrought-iron balconies, stacked one on top of the other. The slight drizzle that blurs the cityscape, making the Eiffel Tower look like an Impressionist painting._

 _She gets a good look at the city while she's trailing the target. A former diplomat, he's slow and makes no effort to be discreet. She's just a tourist, wandering about aimlessly. Stopping at the Marche de Fluer to smell the roses. Feeding sparrows outside the Notre Dame._

 _The Soldier is waiting for her at the safehouse. She fills him in on the target's daily routine and watches as he methodically cleans his guns, never once meeting her eye._

 _The next day, they're sitting at an outdoor café, looking like any other couple enjoying the sun. The target stops briefly to buy some pastries, as they knew he would, and the Soldier lazily signals for the bill. They stroll out, hand-in-hand, behind the target._

 _And before he knows it, he's cornered in an alley, a deadend she had marked out before for this very purpose._

 _"The Red Room sends its regards," she says. She didn't have to but she likes the way it sounds._

 _After it's done, she walks out to the mouth of the alley where the Soldier is keeping a lookout. His back is slouched against the brick wall, an unlit cigarette casually propped in his mouth. He looks like a movie star from those black and white American films they show her._

 _He turns to take note of the work she's done. It's a neat death, no blood, just a simple matter of taking a garrotte to his throat. To be honest, he hadn't put up any fight._

 _The Soldier nods in approval and singlehandedly heaves the body over into a dumpster._

 _Back on the street, he whispers into her ear: Good job._

 _She almost misses the small smile on his face._

 _It's her first mission._

 _._

.

There are books everywhere. Standing on the shelves, sliding off tables, stacked on chairs. Tucked in between the pages of A Lover's Discourse, Barthes' clinical deconstruction of love, she finds a book of poems. Of all people, Bukowski.

Smiling, she takes the book to an empty chair by the window where there's enough light to read.

 _I kneel in the nights_

 _before tigers_

 _that will not let me be._

Bukowski, she muses. The ultimate poet. He spent most of his life drowning in love, debt and alcohol. People thought there was something romantic about his life; sitting at a corner of a bar, fingers stained with ink, pining over a long-dead love. Love is for children, Madame had sneered, and the Red Room does not produce children. And the Black Widow graduated summa cum laude a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like a century, sometimes it feels like yesterday.

 _what you were_

 _will not happen again._

There was a moment at the airport when she wanted to say something. Anything. A word of warning. A cautious "good luck". Or even a smiling "your welcome" to their unsaid thanks. She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and yell _why didn't you recognise me?_

But that day hadn't been about her. It hadn't been about the Black Widow and her slowly-returning memories, freed from years of intentional and unintentional repression. It hadn't been about a recurring ghost in her dreams, so different and yet so similar to the man who stood in front of her with Steve, the Black Panther stalking them like a predator from behind.

And then, after Tony told her that Ross was coming after her, she'd taken the first flight out to India. It was the exact sort of place she was looking for. Someplace no one would expect her to go. Someplace hot and tropical. No frost, no cold.

 _the tigers have found me_

 _and I do not care._

.

.

The Y-shaped headquarters of UNESCO stand gleaming above her as she makes her way to the Place de Fontenoy. The three-pointed star, it's called, for the three buildings that complete the structure.

She wonders if Sophie has found her note yet. She'd thanked her for the meal and the night, adding that she was going to be on her way to Austria now. She couldn't resist signing Eve in red.

Her strides towards the security barrier are confident and unwavering, auburn curls bouncing on her shoulders, though the wig itches her scalp.

The guard looks at the ID, glances up at her face, and waves her through.

She wonders if Sophie has noticed her missing ID yet. Maybe not until tomorrow. As a part-time intern, she isn't expected to be present today at the closed-doors meeting. Natasha reminds herself to drop it off at the Lost and Found before she leaves.

She waits outside the office that's been assigned to him, files in her hands, pen clicking in and out. The offices around her are silent, though she'd noticed quiet activity on the lower floors. She checks her watch. The meeting should have ended by now.

As if on cue, he arrives with his retinue and sweeps past her, barely giving her a glance. She waits until the aides and the assistants leave, until it's just him inside the office and the two bodyguards outside.

She walks up to the door and the woman looks at her questioningly.

"I- I just need some signatures," she stammers, averting her eyes.

They stare at her blankly, and Natasha feels their hard gaze sweeping her body, checking for hidden weapons. Wordlessly, the woman opens the door and ushers her inside.

The door shuts behind her and she notices that the woman had not left her side. Crap, she thinks, that wasn't the plan. Oh well.

"I was under the impression that all the formalities had been completed."

"Not all," she replies and reaches up to deactivate the photostatic veil over her face.

If the King of Wakanda is surprised to see her, he hides it well.

"Agent Romanoff," he greets mildly.

"I think we can drop the agent now, Your Highness." She glances at the Dora Milaje glaring at her. There are only a few things that the Black Widow fears, and the elite Wakandan team of bodyguards is one of them.

T'Challa notices this and smiles. "You can leave us now, Okoye."

Okoye complies, but not before shooting her a look that promises unending torture if Natasha so much as harms a hair on the King's head. Noted.

He'd been standing by the window when they'd entered, but now he crosses to his desk and sits. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Romanoff?"

He doesn't trust her. Beneath the courteous smile lies steel.

"I'm not here to apologise for that day."

"I wouldn't presume so."

There's brief silence as he pours himself a glass of water.

"Don't you want to know why I did it?"

"I understand you now. I was a man consumed by revenge. Killing solves nothing, it only perpetuates the cycle."

"I wouldn't have expected you to leave Wakanda so soon."

"Why, Miss Romanoff, what do you think is keeping me back?" T'Challa smiles. "There is no cause for worry. Your friends are quite safe."

"Oh, I have no doubt they are safe in _your_ hands."

He doesn't miss the emphasis. "I did state that I now find vengeance a futile effort."

"There are worse things than death."

"I don't mean to hold them as pawns. Captain Rogers and his companions are esteemed guests, free to go wherever they wish. Of course, they choose to remain within the borders but considering the remarkable bounty dangling over their heads, it's a wise move." T'Challa takes a sip. "There's an equally formidable manhunt out for the Black Widow."

"I'm used to it. Steve is a soldier, not a spy."

T'Challa leans back in his chair. "Why are you really here?"

"There's been some chatter from your part of the world. I had to confirm. I had to- I had to know in what capacity they were staying in Wakanda." Her fists tighten involuntarily, as if she could have really made a difference if T'Challa had been holding them hostage.

"Is that all?"

"I may have a message."

T'Challa looks at her for a long time then finally allows her to sit. Natasha places the dummy files between them.

"They invited me here soon after the break-in at the Raft, you know. Now that Wakanda has a new ruler, they said, they were hopeful of establishing new ties. Of a purely cultural significance, they said. Wakanda has always been closed off to the rest of the world. They would like to send a culture mission to my country, to participate in an exchange that would help us both. All in the service of a new, globalised world."

He traces the rim of his glass, frowning briefly.

"I'm no fool, of course. They suspect me. But they cannot confront me directly, not with the full might of Wakanda behind me. However a team of emissaries from UNESCO? What objections could I possibly have? After all, I'm a man who respects culture and history, according to them."

"What do you need of me?"

And the King smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bucky's POV this time. It'll become clearer once you read, but this is not set in the present. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _How happy is the blameless vestal's lot_

 _The world forgetting, by the world forgot_

 _Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind_

 _Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd._

\- Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard.

They're standing on a dark and silent rooftop, shoulders hunched over rifle scopes.

"Take a deep breath. Let your mind go empty," he tells her. "Pulling the trigger should be as easy as exhaling."

He watches as she lines up the target. Her hair hangs around her face, and he can make out the colour even on this moonless night. _Fire_.

"That's it," he says once her aim is perfect. "Let it go."

"Let it go," she echoes.

She takes a breath. He's intensely aware of her every little movement, graceful and precise. Her feet shuffling on the concrete as she widens her stance. Chest rising up and down as she breathes in again. Fingers tightening on the trigger.

She still doesn't take the shot.

"We don't have all night, you know," he teases, a little concerned.

"Let it go," she says again. "Let me go."

"What?"

And her face, when she looks up, is utterly blank.

"Let me go, James."

He screams.

.

.

Bright lights. Clinking glasses. Soft music.

He's wearing a dark suit that hides his arm and blends in with the surroundings. She's wearing a sparkling red dress that catches every eye in the vicinity.

He watches her flirt with the mark. Light touches and suggestive glances. The man leans in to whisper something and she gives a tinkling laugh. "Oh, Sergei? Don't mind him, Daddy hired him to keep me safe. Don't worry, he's not as menacing as he looks." And she turns around to place a warm hand on his arm. "Aren't you, Sergei?"

He nods curtly and resumes staring at nothing in particular.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" leers the minister who's about to die soon.

"He doesn't need to be. Come, you were about to show me the painting?"

He follows at a distance, shrouded in the shadows. If the man notices, he doesn't say anything. He's too distracted by the beautiful woman by his side. And then by the knife to his throat.

She's going through the pockets of the dead man when she lets out a gasp and tilts her head to the side. "Did you hear that?"

He's instantly on alert. "Hear what?"

She points towards the rapidly darkening hallway. "Someone's coming."

His senses are far better than most, but even he fails to notice anything. The corridor is absolutely dark, as if all the light has been sucked out.

She clutches his arm. "They're coming for me, James."

And when he turns to look at her, she's already gone.

.

.

She's dancing with the rest on the stage. The lights are off but she shines brightly.

"Redheads stand out in a crowd," she says, matter-of-fact.

" _You_ stand out in a crowd."

She's up there on the stage, and she's right here next to him. She watches him watch her.

"This is wrong," he murmurs as she executes a perfect pirouette. "You never did ballet."

Her hand reaches out to intertwine with his metal fingers. "You're dreaming, James."

"That makes more sense."

"No." And suddenly her fingers are tight enough to dent metal. "They're taking away your dreams too."

His mind is sluggish, still transfixed on the ballerinas.

"Fight! Don't let them-"

The stage lights flare up, and he's blinded. When he opens his eyes again, the auditorium is empty.

.

.

He finds himself lying in bed next to her. He feels warm and safe. Their clothes are strewn all across the hotel room. There's a broken lamp on the floor.

"Mmm," she murmurs, snuggling in closer. "I could stay here forever."

He finds his eyes drifting close. _No. No, wait-_

"Wake up!" He sits bolt upright. "No, wake up! We need to leave, they're coming!"

"Extraction's not due for another three hours," she mutters drowsily. "Come back under the sheets."

He should. She's right. He sinks back into the bed, happy. Comfortable. _No, don't-_

Suddenly she gives a scream. "James, help me!"

Invisible hands are all over her. They're dragging her away. He tries to help her, to bring her back, but he can't- he doesn't- he can't move.

She's thrashing and struggling and the sheets are binding him and tears are streaming down his face and he knows he's lost when his hands go through her body.

All he can do is watch her being dragged away into the deep, dark abyss.

.

.

She twists to face him and his fingers reach out to touch her hair.

"What do you dream of now?"

There's something he has to tell her. Something urgent. But he can't- he doesn't- he can't explain. It's like sand slipping through his fingers. It's like trying to remember something you never knew. It's like-

"They're erasing you!" he yells.

"What are you talking about?"

"They're erasing you from my mind." His voice cracks.

She glances at him, afraid, and drops her gun on the ground. "What do we do?"

"I- I don't know." The initial triumph at finally remembering is fading. "I don't know how to save you." He looks around at the snow-covered clearing they're standing in. The trees sway ominously in the wind. Any minute now he's going to lose this, lose her.

"Okay." She takes a breath, rolls her shoulders back. And when she looks up, the expression on her face is fierce. "They want to erase me? Let them try."

He wants to kiss her.

"Take me to another memory, somewhere they won't look for me. Something deep and buried."

"Okay, alright, I'll-"

"No, don't say it loud. They might hear." She steps forward, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Let's play hide and seek."

.

.

They're walking down a painfully familiar street.

"I don't know how we came here. I don't remember this-"

"Don't you see, Mr. American, this is your old life. This is who you were before." She smiles brightly. "I like him."

He looks down. He's wearing a uniform. He's a soldier. Before he can figure out how the hell he ended up here, they round a corner. And there, at the end of the alley, near a dumpster, he sees a man beating the hell out of a scrawny kid.

His body springs into action. In the blink of an eye he's hauled the man off. "Hey, pick on someone your own size!" The words feel natural in his mouth.

A punch, a kick, it's like he's moving on pure instinct. And when he's sent the bully running, he turns to look at the blonde kid and his breath catches. This isn't just a kid- he's- he _knows_ him.

"Bucky?" he says. His nose is bleeding.

There's a strange pause that shouldn't be there. He feels a hand on his back. "What is happening?" she asks. "Who is this?"

 _I don't know_ , his mind screams as it's been torn into two.

"No, no, no I shouldn't have come here. I made a huge mistake-" They both stare at him like he's gone mad, and maybe he has because all he wants to do is howl and claw his eyes out.

"James. I think we were too late." He turns to her, and her edges seem blurry. The darkness is slowly creeping on her.

"No, we have to fight! Stay with me, please-"

"Buck, what's going on?" His blonde hair is matted with blood and- no it's not blood. The darkness is eating him too.

He's numb with pain and shock and only has time to yell _what have I done_ before the memory is wrenched away from him forever.

.

.

 _"Sir, the Asset is muttering something. There's movement behind his eyes. This shouldn't be possible but-"_

 _"What is he saying?"_

 _"He's calling out someone's name. Steve?"_

 _"Pump him with more sedatives."_

 _"This could be dangerous. Risk of permanent damage if we continue with the procedure."_

 _"Keep going."_

.

.

Paris is nowhere near as picturesque as her.

"We don't have long, you know," he whispers in her ear as they stroll down the cobbled streets. "This is your first mission. We're almost at the end."

She sighs and tucks her arm in his. "It's so nice pretending to be tourists. Do you think he suspects us?"

He takes a moment to look at the man they're following. "Not at all. He's grown foolish with age. Trustful."

"Must be such an easy life, no? Never having to look over your shoulders. And stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like you're trying to memorise my face. You know it's not going to make a difference."

"I know." He's already forgotten what happened when he took her to his old life, but he can still feel the loss. It feels like a gaping void on his side. Like a missing limb.

"What do you think they'll do with me?"

"Probably the same."

They always knew there would be no happy endings. That there would be no escaping retribution. And he doesn't regret a single moment. He's fought, and he'll keep fighting till the end.

"Promise me something, James."

"Anything."

"The next time we meet, if we meet, will you at least _try_ and recognise me?"

He kisses her hard. She tastes of salt and smoke, and for a moment there's nothing but her as the city collapses around them. She looks at him when they break away, eyes bright with unshed tears, fierce and determined, and he prays wildly, fervently to a god that isn't there.

They watch, hand-in-hand, as the Eiffel Tower crumbles into dust.

.

.

.

.

 _"Soldat. Welcome back."_

 _"Ready to comply."_

 _"Good. Now tell me, who is Natalia Alianovna Romanov?"_

 _He stares with unseeing eyes._

 _"No one."_

* * *

 **So. How was it? Be brutal.**

 **This chapter is obviously inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind aka my favourite movie ever.**


	4. Chapter 4

_I have shed my skin_

 _So many times_

 _This graveyard must be full_

 _Of all the people I used to be._

\- David Jones

She's a ditzy American, hair freshly dyed a platinum blonde, when she steps off the train at Bergen. It had been a spectacular journey through fjords, tunnels, snow-fed waterfalls, and tall, tall fir trees. The rendezvous is not due for a couple of hours so she takes a stroll through the fish market overlooking the dock. She buys fresh Norwegian salmon, tries a reindeer sausage (it's too salty for her taste), and flirts with a vendor who greets tourists from around the world in their own native language.

It would be easy not to make it for the appointment, she thinks as she eats her lunch in front of the brightly painted wooden buildings. There was a time long ago, before SHIELD collapsed, when Natasha had made peace with her past. It had been a long, arduous process and sometimes the only thing that had kept her going had been Clint's support. It was bad enough that recently resurfaced memories had shown her that the history she had so reluctantly confronted was just the tip of the iceberg. Did she really want to open another can of worms? She had scrubbed the red on her ledger until her hands turned raw, and now it turned out there were chapters still dripping with blood, staining her fingers.

In the end, however, she takes the funicular to Mount Fløien and waits. The Black Widow might be on the run from several governmental organisations but she was not a coward.

.

.

Even now, Yelena Belova is capable of turning heads. Natasha looks at her and sees what could have been. She sees herself.

Yelena smoothens her elegant skirt and sits carefully on the bench overlooking the city below. Natasha, who had been loitering nearby, comes to stand beside her. Yelena looks up from her hands crossed on her lap and purses her lips.

"Natalia." It's her hands that give away her age.

Natasha occupies the vacant space in silence. The mountaintop, normally crawling with tourists, is relatively empty due to expected fog. Although a light mist hangs in the air, visibility is more than enough for her.

Yelena points a manicured finger towards a building in the distance. "The Opera House. Seems like quite an ugly construction from the street. But it's only from the top you see what it's meant to be. A piano." A pause. "Sometimes all you need is a bird's eye view."

For all intents and purposes, the Red Room's oldest graduate had retired to a charming city in Norway to live the rest of her life in peace. Only a handful knew that Yelena Belova had magnificently adapted to the new world by establishing herself as one of the top dealers in a currency more valuable than anything: knowledge.

As far as possible, Natasha had kept herself away from Yelena's web. She had been her fiercest competitor in the Red Room, their encounters a mix of mutual respect and hostility. When Natasha defected to SHIELD, Yelena had been quick to approach her, offering a chance for her to play the double agent. In the midst of finding her feet in a new world, Natasha had been sorely tempted. Lies and intrigue was what the Black Widow excelled in. The relative transparency of SHIELD had made her feel vulnerable.

But Natasha had made her choice. Yelena wisely backed off, and perhaps this is what made SHIELD finally trust their new Russian agent. Natasha still approached her whenever she needed crucial intelligence for SHIELD or Avengers-related matters because Yelena was simply the best, but any trade between them was conducted in proxy.

"It's been a long, long time," she says, echoing Natasha's thoughts. The slight rasp in her voice is more prominent than before.

"Please, you were never the sentimental type."

"I find that a prolonged life makes for a very lonely one. I'm sure you know that by now." A smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Although, catching up with old friends once in a while does help."

"We were never friends."

"Oh, I agree. But I'm not talking about myself, am I?" She fetches a compact mirror from her patent leather bag and studies her flawlessly-applied makeup. "I hear he goes by Bucky now."

Natasha swallows. "Did you know? Earlier- during- ?"

Yelena snaps the mirror shut and stows it away. "The Winter Soldier and his Red Room lover," she muses. "I always thought they were a cautionary tale for us. Nothing more than legend. Imagine my surprise when I found out not only was it a girl who had trained by my side every day, but a girl who had no idea how old she really was." She pauses to cough into a tissue.

"I hope you realise that it was never a fair match between us. I might have been the oldest in the Red Room, but you had more experience. Decades of it." Yelena glances at her with an edge of envy in her blue eyes.

"Decades that I still don't remember completely," she replies, a crack slipping into her voice. The meeting's not going as planned. Natasha is more flustered than she expected to be. Yelena recognises this, and a smirk spreads across her face at the shift in power.

Natasha notices and realises that she doesn't care.

"Tell me. Tell me everything. What did they do to me."

In answer, Yelena reaches up to her hair and pulls out a glittering clip, placing it in Natasha's hands. She turns it over to see a microchip attached to the base. When she looks up, Yelena has already slipped away, leaving her sitting on the bench as the fog creeps over to the valley like a cat, slowly and silently.

.

.

 _You will break them_ , she had cried.

 _Only the breakable ones_ , they had said. _You are made of marble_.

But there was a time when she wasn't. There was a time when she had broken.

The memories haunt her sleep again. Some old, some new, all painful. There's one that wakes her up with a yell, heart hammering in her chest, the gun shaking as she points it at the door.

 _She's kicking and biting and yelling as they drag her away._

 _She's thrashing and cursing as they tie her to the chair._

 _She's screaming as shocks reverberate through her body, and her screams mingle with another's, someone whose voice she knows as intimately as her own, someone-_

 _Then, there's silence._

.

.

She's strolling across the old town when she notices someone following her. She checks his reflection in a shop window. Bland face, generic suit. Must be a government agent.

 _About damn time_ , she thinks.

She stops in front of an old house, admiring its ivy-covered walls. She sighs pleasantly and takes an obligatory picture. The suit halts and awkwardly leans against a lamppost. Natasha rolls her eyes.

Playing the tourist further, she wanders into a particularly narrow cobblestoned alley. When she hears his footsteps behind her, she smiles.

Not long after, when she's got him in a chokehold, she says, "And here I thought you guys had forgotten about me. Been so long, and they send only one agent? Frankly, I'm insulted."

He grins at her through the blood streaming from his nose. "You're dead, Widow."

Natasha stills.

There's a faint smell of bitter almonds in the air. She springs into action too late. Her assailant is already dead.

No, this was not a government spy. They don't usually kill themselves after getting caught by a lone, (relatively) unarmed target. This was someone with more of a…personal interest. This was a warning.

She's getting sloppy. She should have seen the cyanide pill. She should have noticed he was working alone. No government agent works without backup.

Natasha looks up at the windows but does not catch any movement. There are no convenient dumpsters or loose dirt to hide the body. Still angry with herself, she drags it roughly to the side and props it up against the wall. She cleans up the blood on his face and steps back. Head hanging low, arms crossed over his stomach, he looks like any other passed-out drunk.

It's inferior work by any standard, and Natasha mentally berates herself for being so careless. And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself imagine what the Winter Soldier would say. But there's nothing.

.

.

She's at the airport when she receives a call from T'Challa.

"Miss Romanoff. Don't worry, this is a secure line."

"I'd keep it brief, all the same."

"Of course. I hope your little detour was successful?"

"More or less."

The King wisely doesn't press for details. "Time is running out, however, on the matter we discussed earlier. Are you ready?" The _you better be_ hangs unsaid.

"Of course I am. Have some faith, Your Majesty. I gave you my word," she replies lightly.

T'Challa remains unimpressed. "And yet one hears reports of a certain incident in Bergen. I can't help but wonder if the Black Widow is losing her touch."

Natasha grits her teeth. "A highly unfortunate situation, but unavoidable. You told me that everything you're doing now is to make up for all that your quest for revenge had undone. So believe me, Your Majesty, when I say that everything I'm doing now is to make up for _decades_ worth of wrong. Further," she adds, sweeping a casual glance across the waiting room. "More time is being wasted doubting my word again."

"True," he replies, amused. "And so that you do not have any cause to doubt _me_ , let me assure you that I have not forgotten about the message you wished to convey to certain persons."

She'd dreamt of him last night. This time it wasn't a memory. It was the product of staying up too late reading Yelena's file on the Winter Soldier.

 _You fought for me_ , she wanted to say. _I remember now. They were erasing me from you, you from me. You fought so hard, but it's me who remembers now._

"I have some information," she says instead. "An old friend gave me something that should be useful in understanding Barnes' conditioning."

"Something that would negate the need for him to be in the cryo-chamber?"

"Eventually."

T'Challa makes a thoughtful noise. "Captain Rogers will be pleased."

"I'm sure he will."

"You have a peculiar sense of loyalty. But it's strong, all the same," he admits grudgingly.

"Just doing my bit to erase the red in my ledger," she replies automatically.

"Hmm. I'm expecting you, Miss Romanoff. Don't be late."

The call ends with an abrupt click. As she gathers up her bags to join the passengers queuing for boarding, she thinks about Yelena.

She'd left her used tissue behind on the bench and Natasha had thought it was another hint, and perhaps it was, for when she gingerly unwrapped it, it was glistening with blood.


End file.
